ink!INC.

ink!INC.

Caxton College Student Art& Creative Writing Magazine

Caxton College Student Art& Creative Writing Magazine

Dedicated to Liz Edwards,

without whom this project

would not have been possible.

ink!INC.

Ink Inc began as a creative writing magazine to show-case the

latent talent of potential future authors in Caxton College.

However, in collaboration with the Art Department, it

developed into an art-inspired creative writing project,

incorporating original artwork from our GCSE and A level

students, and encouraging Caxton's modern-day Hemingways

to conjure stories from their imaginations, based on what they

saw in the artwork.

The result was an enormous amount of creative output, and

due to the fact that the quality of the work was so high and

the ideas generated by the artwork were so vastly different,

the task of selecting which stories to include in the magazine

was incredibly difficult.

I sincerely hope you enjoy the beautiful artwork and the

creative writing talents of Caxton's students in this first edition

of Ink Inc.

The magazine is free to download as a PDF document, but you

can also purchase printed copies from the school. However,

rather than setting a price per copy, we are asking for

donations which will go to charity: €2 will cover the cost of

printing each copy, so any contribution you make above that

will go to a good cause, to help people less fortunate than

ourselves.

Please dig deep!

Myles Gunji-Jardine, 2014

Myles

Ink Inc comenzó como una revista de literatura creativa paramostrar el talento latente de los futuros autores en el CaxtonCollege.

Posteriormente, con la colaboración del Departamento deArte, se convirtió en un proyecto de escritura creativainspirada en obras de arte originales de nuestros estudiantesde GCSE y A Level. De este modo, se pretende animar a losHemingways de hoy de Caxton a usar su imaginación paracrear historias en base a lo que vieron en las obras de arte.

El resultado fue una enorme cantidad de produccionescreativas y dado a que la calidad de los trabajos era tan alta ylas ideas generadas por las obras de arte eran tan diferentes, latarea de seleccionar qué historias incluir en la revista fueincreíblemente difícil.

Espero sinceramente que disfruten de las hermosas obras dearte y la escritura creativa de los alumnos de Caxton en estaprimera edición de Ink Inc.

La revista se puede descargar gratuitamente en formato PDF,además se pueden comprar copias impresas en la escuela. Sinembargo, en lugar de fijar un precio por copia, estamospidiendo donativos que irán destinados a caridad: 2 € cubriránel coste de imprimir cada copia, y cualquier contribuciónsuperior a 2 € se destinara a una buena causa, ayudar apersonas menos afortunadas que nosotros.

¡Por favor sea generoso!

MylesMyles Gunji-Jardine, 2014

Table of Contents

Artist Author Page

Carlos Flors Bel Josh Mitchell 1

Sofya Abramchuk Edu Parilla 6

Coralita Arnold Sofia Webber 7

Alicia Civera 8

Alejandro Lis Del Cerro Pablo Rodilla 9

Madeleine Penree 3

Zoe Zanón Rives Edu Parilla 5

Nieves Felipo Llopis Alicia Civera 11

Nieves Felipo Llopis Vicente Rambla 12

Nieves Felipo Llopis Arturo Aleixandre 13Lavara

Caterina Valenzuela Jorge Sala 15Fizedeanu

Yasmin Mitchell Bea Felipo 17

Ana Araj 19

Cover art: Natasha BinniePolina Iegorova

Surviving The Storm

Joshua Mitchell

I was never really attracted to the sea and

I definitely never thought I would be a

sailor, but one experience – or should I

call it an adventure – made that decision

for me: the storm.

Me and my dad took a small 25-foot boat

out for a day trip; it was windy and quite

choppy but good fun. The sun broke

through the clouds and burned warm on

my face.

We were heading out a few miles and my

dad was teaching me how to use the

compass on the boat, heading east away

from the coast, and then showing me

how to turn the boat around to head back

west, back to the coast.

The upper deck was highly polished and

the sea spray as

small waves constantly hit the side of the

boat. Dad was heading down the boat to

tie off a rope, but he slipped, hitting his

head hard on the deck, knocking him

unconscious.

I scrambled across the deck, avoiding the

ropes and tackle, calling out to him as I

ran, but when I reached his side I could

see he was bleeding heavily and he was

out cold: I tried to wake him but I

couldn't, so I went to fetch the first aid kit

stored below deck.

I returned to find him moaning in pain,

made it very slippery,

and he was in and out of

consciousness as I bandaged

his head to stem the bleeding.

Then I had to drag him across

the deck, back to the cabin,

but as I did, I looked up at the

sky and saw dark, gloomy,

black clouds heading towards

us.

I finally managed to get him to

the cabin, hauled him up onto

the bed and put a warm

blanket over him, but through

the cabin window I could see

the clouds were right on top

of us and the sea was getting

angry.

I rushed to the wheel to turn

the ship around, grabbing

onto the ropes securing the

sails, but the storm flung the

boat around in the water and I

kept slipping on the wet deck.

It was no use: we were

already in the belly of the

cloud monster.

Fighting with the wheel, trying to

maintain our course back to land, I was

glad my dad had taught me how to use

the compass, and that I knew how to

steer back towards safety.

Finally, dad started to come to, moaning

and trying to lift his head, but he was still

too dizzy to stand or to help, so he had to

guide me from the bed.

1

“Hold onto the wheel… don't let go!”

The wind and the sea were still as angry as

ever, thrashing the boat from side to side,

and the waves pounded the boat so hard

that I thought I was going to throw up.

But we kept fighting, steering into the

wind, not knowing if we would make it

out alive, but determined to make land if

we could; determined not to allow the

angry sea push us away when we were so

close to home.

Suddenly, through a break in the clouds

and the sea spray, we sighted land, and

steering into the calm waters of the bay, it

was as though the whole thing had been a

dream. But looking over my shoulder as

we finally set foot on the safety of the

beach, I could see the angry clouds

cursing behind us and the sea foaming in

frustration.

I no longer wish to sail. I prefer to keep my

feet on solid ground.

Carlos Flors BelGCSE work

Carlos Flors BelGCSE work

2

The Ocean’s Signs

Madeleine Penree

I always thought that it was just

yesterday that we used to sit here, on

this dock, in these old and worn oak

deck chairs and watch the sea. Watch

the tides go in and out as the sun

would make its way across the sky.

Or was it yesterday? It seems that the

days have become muddled in my

head since you left, my dear. Perhaps

it was a thousand afternoons ago that

we would sit here and relish the simple

pleasure of sharing our existence. A

thousand yesterdays ago. You would

have given me a wry smile at that one.

And as we sat, the waves would crash

against the support beams below us;

the sun kissing – or rather, viciously

slapping – our faces and skin. I would

make offhand comments about the

shoddy structure of the dock below us,

and you would say something about

how we were going to end up with skin

cancer if we didn't put some sunblock

on soon.

Sometimes I dream of the hours we

would spend there: two once strangers

bonding over nothing. I can still hear

all of the fabulous tales you used to

spin. Some so close to reality; some

distant dreams. The one about how

the sun loved the moon so much he

would die every day so she could

breathe; the one about a man who

made a deal with the devil; the rather

strange one about a Juniper tree; and

the one about the mourning mother

which never failed to make me cry.

After hours sitting on the dock, whenyou finally ran out of your marvelouslycrafted words, you would look me inthe eye and you would demand

knowledge about me in return. So Iwould offer my beating heart to you.And in return you would adopt it asyour own and sew up the jagged holesand rips.

All the while the sun would crawlacross the sky, and when it finally set,I would receive one of two things fromyou: a lovely smile and a promise ofreturn, or an embrace that wouldsalvage the little warmth that the coldsea breeze didn't steal away.

And it was in those moments that Iknew I had made my home insomeone else, that I was vulnerableand open, and that you were kind andgentle.

I remember the day when the shoddyold thing finally broke. We felt thebeams below us shift and creak, butwe did nothing. We just sat there untileverything collapsed and fell into thesea. And while our little plane ofexistence shifted, like a zone of AM ina world of FM, and was stolen awayby the effects of time, age and wear,we clasped each other's hands tightly.I wonder if that’s how the people on asinking ship feel?

We didn't let go until we were lying onour backs in the shallow waters belowwhat once was the end. It was then,as the backs of our thin summerclothing soaked up the salty water,that you told me your last story.

You pulled me close and calmly toldme something which unraveled yourcareful needlework. And as I heardyour words I felt my heart ripping andbleeding; mixing with the churningcurrents around us and turning thewhole thing an ugly, blotted red.

Was it the sea's salty foam or a broken

3

human's tears you kissed off mycheeks that day, my love? I don'tremember that either.

"When I was little I lived in a littlefishing town on the coast, a few statesdown," you murmured once the starshad come out from hiding. "It wasreally small. One of those postcard,ripple-in-time places. Everyone prettymuch knew everyone. There was thissweet old couple who lived down thestreet from us. The wife ran the town'sonly bakery, and the man fished. Iwould always go there after schoolwhen my mom was too busy withwhatever she did to bother. It wasnice.

“I remember one day though, when Ipushed open the old heavy glassdoors; the old lady barely looked up. Itwas obvious she'd been crying. Iwalked over to her, and when I wasright next to her she grabbed my armand told me that the sea was just asyou and me. It was living andbreathing; it felt and it knew. Whensomeone wrongs it, the sea willremember and it will detest them. It'llruin their fishing, and createdangerous waves to punish them andtake its anger out on them. But thesame applies the other way: whensomeone loves the sea, the sea willlove them in return. That means whenthat beloved person dies, if they areburied at sea, the sea will mourn withus. The waves will crash as we weep.The sky will blacken like our clothing."

You didn't look at me during your longrecount; not once. Your gaze wastrained on the sky. Were you happythen? Were you crying like me?

"Sure enough, just like clockwork, laterthat afternoon the sky turned dark and

a storm hit. Just like she'd said it would.So, she and I, we sat by the windowand we watched the angry waves insilence until my mother came to takeme home to our apartment.

“So that's what I want you to do for me,love, I want you to make sure that mybody's buried in the sea. That way I canbe here forever.”

I don't think I said anything to you afterthat. Not that I remember at least.Perhaps I did. Perhaps that's why Inever saw you again. Did you hate me?

I made sure that they did what you'dasked of me, though they fought metooth and claw all the way. Will you tellme why, now?

I came back to this place. That's howmuch I love you, dear. It's been years,so I suppose you could say I'm a littlelate. I tried to come earlier. I really did.But it seems that those around me thinkthat this isn't healthy. (What have theyever known?)

All of my time with you has becomemuddled. I've forgotten your eyes.Were your lips chapped? Did you havefreckles? I can't say.

I do know one thing though, my sweet.And I'm damn sure of it. The oceandidn't cry when you were laid to rest:the sky stayed that sunny blue, and thewaves were peaceful.

That means you're still out there then,love. Because if the ocean loved youlike I had, there would have been ahurricane.

So you're still out there. You have to be.There's simply no other explanation.

It's just like you, and I'm going to keepbelieving anything that'll one day bringyou back home to me.

4

5

Hating YourselfEdu Parilla

Ever get the disturbing feeling?

The disturbing feeling that maybe – justmaybe – you weren't meant to be? Thatyou are just a mistake? For her, it is just adaily thought.

She knows she is lucky to have a home, abed, warm meals in the winter, coolrooms in the summer and an education,but it seems as though nobody wants her.Her parents never stop complaining aboutthe school fees and how much she coststhem when the bills come in. Her friends(or… well, they weren't real friends werethey, if she did not know what having afriend was?), they would all cold-shoulderher when they joined up with their otherclassmates.

Anything was better than her.

No boy stole glances at her across theroom, let alone talked to her.

It was just a merry-go-round of incessant

whispering behind hands: a parade ofmurmurs and poorly-disguised loathing.Death glares and awkward silences roselike black smoke whenever she tried totake part in a conversation. Nobody caredto hear her opinion, and she seemed toobreakable, as if a small breeze could blowher away, and so timid that sometimeseven teachers forgot her presence.

She sits down, but does not cry. She hidesher head in her hands, but does not cry.She pulls at her hair, but does not cry. Shethinks about all the nasty things peoplesay about her when she over-hears theirtittle-tattle conversations, but she stilldoes not cry.

Well, maybe just one tear; a small, shinybead which swells in the corner of her eyebefore spilling over the lid and runningslowly down her cheek. But nobodynotices her. Everyone else is having fun.

Ever get that disturbing feeling? That youare worthless? Desperation echoes inyour mind.

Zoe Zan n RivesGCSE work

óZoe Zan n RivesGCSE work

ó

Only An Upward Step - Edu Parrilla

I stop.

There's a small drawing in this book. It shows a fewbooks stacked like stairs stooping just over the edgeof nothingness.

I smile a bitter, poisonous smile as I realise that it isprobably an apt metaphor for my life.

In the nursery, there is always another girl born.Once she learns to talk, she learns to flirt and sing.Once she learns to walk, she is taught to dance,and twirl lightly. I can still hear my unclereprimanding my grandmother over my poorknowledge of the musical arts.

All for just one reason: to get into the King's bed.

That is the constant fight at court: all the familieswrestling for dominance, all with an eye on thethrone, and hoping to put their girl in the arms ofHis Majesty. It is all for the riches, the titles, theoffices and honours to add to the name of thefamily. And maybe, if you are lucky, you are allowedto skip your classes because you are a child. PraiseGod if it be a boy, so you can have a royal bastard inthe family who can claim the throne.

The Queen is old, but she shall never retire. She isdetermined to have the King at her feet until shedies. I loved the Queen, and when I served as hermaid-in-waiting and she chose me as a favourite, Inever imagined I would have to betray her in theworst way possible.

The King would send for me almost every day, and Ibore him two children, strong and healthy,undoubtedly his. But he is a King. A King whoseinterest can wane as quickly as it comes.

When I observe the court now, I think us all fools.We twirl like clockwork cogs, the King's pleasureour priority. Every activity must be enhanced(tennis, jousting, boat races…) and made so thatour spoiled ruler gets whatever he sulks for andwhenever he wants it.

Uncle had me with the King, until his interest died.My first heartbreak, when I realised that thisgolden, lovely husband was just a fat, spoilt, man-child. Nobody looks at me with pride anymore. Iam just last year's mistress, nothing else. I mustendure the smirks, the whispers and the scandals,whether I like it or not.

I was just a step. An upwards step to further thefamily. There is probably a cousin of mine rightnow being pressured hard to catch the King's eyeand to play the same game of chess I too wasforced to play. The problem in chess is that thepower does not reside in the pieces, but in theinvisible forces which move them.

The King is a beast and it's our job to tame him.

I am just an upwards step, and I feel soinsignificant that any second now God might justpress me down with his thumb and erase me fromthis world.

I have been Queen, and yet I am nothing to myfamily. Since the moment I was born, I was alwaysjust a step up for them. And as they climbedtowards the light they never looked back, so I wasleft to watch the silhouette of their robes billowingout behind.

I was a step. All but a Queen, but just a step up.

Just another step.

Sofya AbramchukAS work

Sofya AbramchukAS work

6

Sofia Webber

I feel like I've been out here forever, alone in

these woods. It's hard to keep track of time

these days, but my second month here is coming

to an end. The days are becoming colder,

shorter, and the air is crisp with the aura of an

impending winter. My faith is plummeting, along

with the temperatures, as I realize that I'm not

as strong as I thought I was. I am beginning to

dread the coming of each day. It's been hard to

fend for myself in these perilous woods. Some

days there is not enough game to make one fire-

cooked meal.

It all started with the day of the auction, my

sixteenth birthday. I was about to be sold to my

'soul mate', who I barely knew, and I dreaded it

more than anything. I came to the realization

that I would rather leave my pathetic excuse for

a family behind rather than give myself up to a

stranger so easily. And being the stubborn

teenager I was, and still am, I decided to run

away. In my fanciest clothes, I slipped from the

crowds and ran straight home to grab what I

needed: my pocket knife, my favourite hiking

boots, matches and thankfully, my warmest

jacket. Not much, but I could live with it. After

that, I set out into the wilderness.

The first days weren't easy, especially the food

aspect, but I was lucky to have recognized some

familiar blueberries and blackberries and I

blessed the Gods for my luck because if it hadn't

been early autumn I wouldn't have been so

fortunate.

Since then, I've survived by repeating the same

daily routine: wake up, hunt, eat, explore, eat

more and sleep. It's easier said than done. For

me, unlike the people living in my city, life is

anything but luxurious. I'm always looking out

for threats, enemies. But I can't say that I miss

my old life: the city I grew up in was once a

paradise but now its future is doomed. I was one

of the first to realize, which is one of the reasons

I ran away. How could they not see the looming

uprising? People like me do not like having their

freedom taken away. The men who ruled the

country were blinded by their money, just like

everyone else. But little did they know that the

objectified women were planning a revolution. I

heard about all of this from my mother and I

realized I needed to escape.

The snap of a fallen branch hurls me back into

reality and I hurriedly take cover behind a large

tree trunk. There are more snaps and my

heartbeat races in my chest. I peer around the

corner and my eyes widen: there stands a girl

who looks about nineteen years old. She has

long, dark hair and masked features, but the

biggest difference between us is our clothes.

She wears a sheer, expensive gown emblazoned

with gold and the way it drapes over her body

makes her seem almost unreal, like she’s a

figment of my imagination.

I blink repeatedly, squinting against the bright

golden glimmer of her dress, and I look into her

eyes. But they are absent. Dull. And somehow it

looks as though she's trying to capture the

moment, as if she can take photographs with

those large, vacant, grey orbs.

I wonder what she sees, and I am suddenly

conscious of my hair matted with grime, my

filthy clothes and the deep bags under my eyes.

I feel so bland, so dull and so neutral compared

to this privileged girl, a lot like me yet so

completely different. I feel an unanticipated

pang of jealousy, why can't I look like that? But

then, as I look at her posture, slouched with

defeat, I realize that the look in her eyes is

indeed one of envy. She wants to be like me.

Suddenly she lets out a high pitched squeal and

scurries away, and I realize that she must have

seen through my frightful appearance and

recognized the independence, the bravery, and

the strength in my eyes.

And with that, all my doubts evaporated. If

someone so acquainted with wealth and

fortune can see something they crave within

me, then I must be special. So maybe I can

survive this.

From that day on, I never doubted myself again.

7

Alicia Civera

The pain in her eyes told the story of

nineteen years of suffering. The lost

teenager inside a woman's body with only

one aim: survival. A hidden child

desperate for life, fighting to live from one

meal to the next, desperate for sufficient

energy to hunt, to eat and to escape the

dangers all around her.

But under the grime of adulthood, still

lives the innocent small girl who hid

behind a tree in the lonely darkness of her

first night in the woods, afraid of the

shadows and the howls of unseen

animals. The orphan girl learned to

appreciate little details and how to hate

the world because no-one cares: caring is

just an illusion created by our

subconscious mind to hide us from our

deepest fears. Having the sense that

death is waiting for you at every turn, or

that vicious creatures are waiting to

pounce from behind every tree, keeps you

alert and wary.

She had become a child of the forest and

she had learned to survive on an hour of

sleep during the day, and an hour at night.

Her hands had not touched the hands of

another human being for more than

eleven years, but they had become

accustomed to killing and to being soaked

in the hot blood of her latest kill. And she

knew the feeling of her own blood

pouring out from her wounded flesh,

gushing out onto the ground, watched by

a beast which saw her as its next meal.

Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. There

was only one rule: survive.

Coralita ArnoldAS work

Coralita ArnoldAS work

8

Pablo Rodilla

It always rained.

In those days ominous dark clouds

painted the sky with their pale, slate-grey

tones, and the world would cleanse itself

with the dark patterns of rain, lifeless

clouds roaring through the sky with

mighty thunder, turning the blackest of

blacks to hide the land below in a myriad

droplets of rain.

Before me stood a mighty cathedral, a

temple of gothic providence, a perfect

mixture of the ideal of divine guidance

and the cruel yet simple reality in which

man lives. The cheerful, detailed

sculptures of angels who seemed to

announce a new epoch of happiness, as

their faces were crafted with grace and

the warmest of smiles, suddenly gave way

to figures representing hardship and

victory through blood, sweat and tears:

the sacrifices a man and woman must

make to prosper.

But the most astonishing thing was the

precision and realism of some of the

sculptures, of men whose hardened faces

looked upon the future and saw nothing

but darkness. However, their faces did not

show despair, but the determination to

venture forth into the abyss to find the

light in a new dawn which they would

build with their own hands.

The cathedral itself was an immense

building, gargantuan in size and seemingly

endless, but that wasn't what bothered

me: it was the

, whose face was hidden beneath

petite frame of a young

woman who was crouched over a small

puddle at the entrance of the cathedral,

just in front of the white, polished marble

stairs

thick, black hair which was so long that it

reached all the way down her arms and

caressed the backs of her hands.

I knew who she was. And I knew that the

smile she once wore had been removed

and replaced by something terrible;

something so dark and malevolent that I

could not bring myself to look through the

immobile barrier of her hair.

She extended her arm, a small comb in

her right hand, black and broken, while

clutching her left hand to her chest

“This is all your fault,” she said, pointing

an accusing finger at me.

Her voice was sharp like a razor and it

slashed through the roaring rain and the

menacing lightning, and buried itself deep

into my soul; into the deepest corners of

my mind.

“If you had simply walked away in the first

place, if you had simply forgiven her, you

would not be here. And I would not be

tormenting you if you had just been able

to understand what that little girl could

do. What she was. Who she was. But now

it doesn't matter: your world lies in ruins,

your mind is shattered and your body is

battered and mauled, on the brink of the

abyss, on the brink of death.”

I stared silently into her eyes, listening to

every poisoned word.

“You can end this,” she continued. “All this

pain, all this suffering and agony, it could

all simply end, the same way you ended

her poor, innocent life. Murderer…”

It was then that I saw the chasm behind

me, a bottomless pit which offered an

escape: eternal oblivion.

9

“No!” I exclaimed defiantly.

The little girl staggered back, surprised.

“This is how you work,” I roared. “You

bury yourself deep in the hearts of men

and women, you push them to do things

that they would never do of their own

accord, and you force them to blame

themselves for things which are not their

fault. I know you better than you think,

Despair. You search people's souls, trying

to break them so you may feast upon

their pain. But I am not to blame for her

death. You are. It was your fault. You

broke her!”

Confronted, her scheme laid bare, the

darkness surrounding her faded and

Despair ran, fleeing in sheer terror at the

prospect of Hope.

Alejandro Lis Del Cerro

GCSE work

10

11

Alicia Civera

Lots of things can change in a year, like a woman's

life, which was changed over the course of a day

and was never the same.

She wasn't really an old woman, but of course, she

didn't have as much of her life in front of her as

she did before. She was fifty, half a century of

memories. Twenty two years ago that day she had

seen her wedding day, but she'd neglected to have

children, which was why she was alone now.

Her husband was rarely around. He often came

home drunk late at night, and there had been

plenty of occasions when she’d had to make

excuses for why he wasn't at work the next day.

She suspected that he spent his time with his

friends from the bar, but she could never be sure

because he refused to talk about it. But despite

the fact that they could hardly pay the mortgage

and they didn't have any close family they could

rely on, she never questioned him: she still loved

him and she never saw fault in anything he did.

Then one day her husband died. She spent her

days crying, mourning his loss, and a year later,

after she thought she had shed all the tears she

had within her, the police turned up at her door,

informing her that while they had been

investigating a murder, they had discovered that

her husband hadn't died of natural causes, but

that he too had been murdered.

She wondered if she might be next on the killer’s

list. But who would want to kill an old woman?

As old memories began to resurface, she

remembered the handsome young man she had

first met, and she remembered sitting on a bench

in the old park together, hand in hand with her

head on his shoulder. It was THEIR bench.

Little by little, as the investigation went on, the

woman began to realise that her husband wasn't

as perfect as she had first thought, and she

discovered there was evidence to suggest he had

even been cheating on her with other women.

She still went to the park, and with each passing

day the significance of the bench slipped from

her mind. But everywhere she looked she was

reminded of him.

Eventually she sold the house and moved to

another city in a desperate attempt to shake his

ghost from her life. The people in the new city

were friendly, but she didn't want anything to do

with them: they wanted to help her but she

wouldn't listen. And when the police finally

revealed the name of her husband's killer, she

became so angry that she forgot who she was.

She hunted the assassin for weeks and when she

finally tracked him down, she dragged him out

into the street and shot him between the eyes at

point blank range in broad daylight.

The woman was sentenced to thirty years in jail

for the cold-blooded murder, and she spent the

rest of her life in the madhouse. And it was there

she realised she had never been truly happy until

her husband had died. She took one last breath

and died smiling, alone.

Nieves Felipo LlopisAS work

Nieves Felipo LlopisAS work

The New Girl

Vicente Rambla

She sat waiting on a small blue chair, her big

red back pack leaning against the chair leg.

Everything seemed strange to her. Nothing was

as before. Everything had changed. But for

good or for bad? She didn't know. She just sat

there, waiting for something to happen.

Five minutes later an old woman with white

hair entered the room.

“Welcome to your new school,” she said. “My

name is Mrs Smith and I am your head

teacher.”

The girl stood up and smiled.

“Where should I go?” she asked.

“Room 10,” answered the teacher.

The girl walked through the doorway and down

the corridor, checking the numbers on each

classroom door as she went, but she couldn't

find Room 10, so she headed downstairs and

found herself in a long corridor.

She continued to search and a man appeared.

“Excuse me sir, can you help me find Room 10,

please?”

Without a word, he pointed down the corridor.

The room was full of other children, all the

same age as her, so the girl found an empty

seat and sat down.

“Hi, my name is Sally,” said the girl sitting next

to her.

“Hi Sally. I'm Abbey,” replied the new girl with a

smile.

A woman came into the room and asked

everyone to sit down.

“Abbey, would you introduce yourself, please?”

A new life had started for a new Caxton College

student.

Nieves Felipo LlopisAS work

12

Nieves Felipo LlopisAS work

Nieves Felipo LlopisAS work

13

Arturo Aleixandre Lavara

“He is alive!” shouted Philip at the top of his

voice.

“Are you sure?”

“I swear to God he's still alive, Annie. I swear it.

He fought like a hero and he was injured, but

he's alive. One of the neighbour's slaves told

me. He was with him, fighting for us, fighting for

the south.”

A broad smile spread across Annie's young face

and Philip felt some relief as he continued

talking, because he knew that those words

helped Annie escape reality, her reality, the

tough reality that the south was being overrun,

that they were going to lose all that they had,

and all that they truly loved.

Philip's praise for Annie's brother felt good to

him. His words were soothing, in contrast to the

harshness of reality. They were something to

hang on to and they were very persuasive: Philip

made a good amount of money with his words,

selling garbage at inflated prices to rich people.

“He was alone with his squad, and he disposed

of twenty soldiers in seconds,” he continued.

Annie combed her hair as she listened. It was

dirty and tangled because working the night

shift at the hospital wasn't easy and it didn't

allow her much time to take care of her

appearance. She was heavily underpaid but she

needed the work to survive: in the end that's all

that mattered.

Annie winced as she made an attempt to comb

out the knots, but it was no use: too many days

without taking a shower, too much time

working and praying for her brother's life and

for her father's safe delivery to heaven. Her

father had been very important to her. No one

knew where his body lay and she assumed it had

probably been incinerated by the Yankees, but it

left a void within her: while other fathers were

being reunited with their families, hers was lost

forever.

Annie tried to forget, but it was difficult and it

took several weeks before she was able to get

any rest. Even then she was plagued by

insomnia, causing the bags under her eyes to

grow bigger and darker by the day.

Philip was aware of what Annie was going

through. He was her cousin and he cared about

her, so the desire to continue lying to her, to

keep telling her things to distract her when

everything seemed to be conspiring against her,

was very strong. He knew it was wrong of

course, but he locked the feeling away: her

smile made it right somehow. However, the

more he suppressed his guilt, the more difficult

it was for him to keep the secret hidden, until

one day he couldn't contain himself any longer

and the truth just spilled out.

“I'm… I'm… so sorry, Annie. I, I didn't mean to

hurt you, but I can't hide it any more…,”

Annie paled.

“Your brother is dead.”

Annie sank to the floor and let out a painful

howl of despair. With one hand she clawed at

her hair in desperation, and with her other she

snapped the comb in two. Philip stepped

forwards to console her, but she pushed him

away angrily.

“This…” she sobbed, hurling the broken pieces

at him, “this was the last thing my brother gave

me before going to war. It was precious to me

because it reminded me of him and because it

gave me hope. And you gave me hope too,

Philip. You told me he was alive. But you lied.

“My brother may be dead, but he is not as dead

as you are to me now...”

A cold silence filled the room.

14

The City Of Werewolves

Jorge Sala

A bullet grazed my ear, another one hit

a random oak and the last one landed in

the chest of a swallow. My blonde hair

was frozen and the strands were stuck

to each other, covered by a shiny layer

of frost which helped me camouflage

myself in the wilderness. The woods

were silent, apart from the footsteps of

the predator, which were getting closer

and closer.

The fog that surrounded the forest

blinded me. It was already dawn, but

the moon still shone brightly, while the

layer of snow covering the ground

sparkled, reflecting the pale glow like a

mirror, and a gentle breeze stroked my

body. A wolf howled in the distance.

Suddenly the hunter appeared from

behind a tree, brandishing a gun.

“Move and I'll kill you!”

Startled, I started running desperately,

not knowing what to do or where to

hide, but just as I thought I was getting

away, I tripped over a tree root buried

in the snow and fell. In the distance I

could hear screaming and the angry

cries of the swallows, mourning the loss

of their brother, and when the hunter

appeared, I could see his face was a

mass of wounds from their ferocious

attack

“Swallows know how to take revenge.

That's the only thing we have in

common.”

“What do you want with me?” I

stammered nervously.

“You are a werewolf…” he said darkly,

drawing his gun. “Time to say

goodbye.”

Suddenly the world fell silent. No bird

calls, no wind in the trees, not even the

sound of my own breath. And then, as if

from nowhere, the wolves appeared;

slowly at first, one by one, then

gradually their numbers increased,

filling the void between the hunter and

me until I could no longer see him.

Time froze for a moment, but then,

without warning, the pack suddenly

attacked him, and he was gone. There

one moment, gone the next.

Fearing for my own safety, I backed

away carefully, but despite my fears, the

wolves didn't attack me as I expected

they would. Instead a dark tornado

surrounded the savage beasts, a burst

of light tore the brown oak leaves from

the trees, and a whirl of frost and fog

began to revolve around them,

gradually, one by one, turning the

wolves into men.

“Vi… Victoria?” said the leader in a

serious tone, “I've been looking for you

since I was a child. I need to talk to you

about your wolf abilities.”

“My what?” I replied. “I'm not who you

15

think I am. I don't have wolf

abilities.”

“You don't know who you

are, Victoria,” he explained

calmly. “Your mother was

human, but your father was a

werewolf, and now that you

have out-grown your human

cage, it is time you discovered

who you really are inside. You

don't belong in the human

world anymore.

“That's why werewolf

hunters are chasing you: they

want to extract the magic

elixir that hides inside your

heart.”

We walked together as he

spoke, the moonlight guiding

us through the colourful

poppies and lush pines.

“Do you see that mill by the

river?” he asked, pointing to a

large white building in the

distance. “That will be your

new home.”

“So you're telling me I'm a

werewolf…” I said with a

smile. “Do vampires exist too?

And demons? Fairies? Elves?”

“Of course,” he replied. “All the

creatures that appear in fairytales or

books are true, but they live in many

different places. For example, vampires

usually hide in dark, damp alleyways in

cities around the globe, mainly in New

York. And fairies and wizards coexist in

the streets of London.”

We continued walking, until we reached

the mill.

“Welcome to the city of werewolves...”

Caterina Valenzuela FizedeanuGCSE work

16

something was going to

change. Maybe for the

better or maybe for the

worse – I couldn't tell – but

I just had that feeling.

The day started ordinarily

enough, and just like any

other day, I walked to the

office, made myself a

coffee, and sat down at the

computer to check my

email. Most of it was spam

as usual, but there was one

from my boss, sent round

the entire office, which

said that there was a new

model joining the

magazine. There was a

photograph attached.

I opened it and stared at

the screen bleary-eyed,

reaching for my coffee. He

was handsome. Tall,

blonde, green eyes…

He looked kind of familiar...

Suddenly it clicked. It was him! I nearly

choked on my coffee.

Then, almost as if he had read my mind,

there he was, walking past my desk, and

to my horror, a nervous laugh welled up

inside me and I started giggling

uncontrollably. I was so embarrassed. It

was like a nightmare.

Thankfully, that was the moment Amber

chose to appear, just in the nick of time,

and noticing that something was wrong

with me, she introduced herself to him

while I calmed down. When she had gone

and I had regained control of myself, I

stood up and walked over to where he

was sitting.

“Hi! Do you remember me?”

Diary of a Crazy Girl

Bea Felipo

Dear diary, I am not writing this for

pleasure, but because my psychologist has

told me to. It’s an assignment. He says

that retelling my horrific story, even just

writing it down, could help me handle it

better in the future.

I decided to write it because saying it out

loud is still too hard for me at the

moment.

It's hard to know where to start…

It was a year ago last week and I was

celebrating my 21st birthday with some

friends at a club. It had been a long time

since we had all been out together

because, after high school had ended, we

grew further apart as jobs and university

and new social lives got in the way. But

that night we danced and drank and

laughed, and it was good to finally have

everyone back together again.

It must have been around midnight that

this guy came to talk to us. He was quite

tall, blondish, with green eyes and very

handsome, but just when we thought he

was going to leave to dance with his

friends, he suddenly took my hand and

dragged me to the dance floor, and we

danced together for almost an hour.

When I re-joined my friends, they were all

asking about him of course, but he was

the type of guy you dance with once and

then never expect to see again. At least

that's what I thought.

It had been a great birthday, but we went

home at three because I had to go to

work the next morning: at that time, I was

working as an assistant at a magazine. My

sister Amber worked there too. She's five

years older than me, but everyone says

she looks younger. Anyway, when I woke

up the next morning, I had a feeling that

17

“Um, sorry I don't, should I?” he

answered.

“Oh, right, well… last night I went out for

my birthday,” I stuttered nervously, feeling

like an idiot, “and I was with my friends

and we went to this club… it was late…

and there was a group of guys… lots of

loud music… you and me?”

He started at me blankly.

“We danced for like an hour,” I continued,

flustered, “and I hadn't seen my friends

since we left high school so they were all

asking about you. Oh my god, this is so

embarrassing and I think I'm talking too

much so I'm going to stop now. Yes, I'm

definitely talking too much… time to stop.

Why can't I stop?”

“Oh yes! I remember you now!” he said,

to my relief. I was beginning to think I had

imagined it all.

“My name is Justin, do you work here?”

And just like that, we were having a

normal conversation: no more

awkwardness and no more spoiling things

by talking too much.

So what went wrong? Well, a week later

Justin and I were dating. And week after

that he moved in. He seemed to have no

faults: not only was he incredibly

handsome, but in his free time he even

taught children at the local orphanage to

read and write. And as if that wasn't

enough, he adored puppies and was the

perfect boyfriend too: every morning he

woke me up with a hot cup of coffee, he

planned romantic dinners together, and

every weekend he would bring me a

bouquet of the most beautiful flowers I

had ever seen.

The next eight months were pure bliss.

Yasmin MitchellGCSE work

Yasmin MitchellGCSE work

18

I could not have been happier and

everything seemed perfect…

Until one day a friend of mine told me

that she had seen him with another girl. I

didn't believe her of course. Justin

wouldn't do that. Not MY Justin. So I

thought she was just jealous and that she

wanted to split us up. But the doubt

lingered in my mind, so I decided to ask

him directly.

The problem was, it was true, and when I

confronted him, he didn't even try to deny

it.

“Who is she?” I screamed.

“You don't want to know…”

But he told me anyway. And that was his

biggest mistake.

I am not normally an angry person. I am

calm, I keep my cool and I don't let my

emotions get the better of me. But I do

tend to bottle things up and sometimes

my negative feelings fester and grow deep

inside until I can't control them any more.

So after I kicked Justin out, I followed him

and he went to my sister's apartment. You

see, Amber was the one he had been two-

timing me with. I took the spare canister

of gasoline from the trunk of my car, let

myself in silently, and doused the

apartment. My memory is hazy after that,

but they charged me with double

homicide.

Since then I haven't cried. I haven’t been

able to. My psychologist says I don't want

to cry because I'm afraid of losing control

again. Maybe he's right. But then again,

maybe not... maybe it's really my hate for

Justin and for my sister which keeps me

from crying.

All I know is that, trapped here behind

these bars, the only thing which makes

me smile now is knowing how they died.

I Need You

Ana Araj

Once again I can't sleep. I am

drowning in my own tears. I remember

moments we spent together before

you left, the innocent glances which

grew into love, the smiles which

became hugs, and I remember how I

imagined an eternity of kisses that

now I know I will never taste.

Why did you leave me here so alone,

surrounded by so many memories?

Everywhere I look there are traces of

you: a simple book reminds me of all

the afternoons we spent “studying”

together, and the ghost of you lingers

in every classroom and every corridor.

I can't even sleep without waking in

the middle of the night, restless and

suffocating. You are everywhere and

nowhere at the same time.

No-one told me love would hurt so

much. Walking through school, I see

you everywhere, with your blue eyes

and your soft, chestnut hair, and I

remember how I used to love running

my fingers through your hair and

gently playing with your wispy beard in

the mornings.

Sometimes I feel you're still here,

watching me. I hear your voice, telling

me you love me, and sometimes I feel

you're so close I can even smell you…

but what good does it do me?

I need you here with me. I need your

hugs, your smiles, your beautiful eyes,

your words, your kisses… I need you.

19

ink!INC.

ink!INC.

Caxton College Student Art& Creative Writing Magazine

Caxton College Student Art& Creative Writing Magazine